Tired

Tiresome paralysis lies
In the beds and the bones
Of those gone senile.

You can see it
In the woman
Closing her eyes
At the gas pump.

See it
In the man
Standing in the
Post office line
Without an impatient sigh
Or clicking his fingernails;
More floating than waiting,
Because the climax never happened.

'New' is a dead term
Of an even more dead language.

Probably from too many
Repetitive SNL skits.

Too many birthday parties attended,
Mismatching party hats
With bad looks.

Too many old lovers
With mouths full of
"Will you?'s,"
"I do's,"
"Must do's,"
"Children,"
And "See you tomorrow's,"
But never chewed.

Too many human stew fantasies,
But no gas stove large enough.

No one willing to lend a ladle.

I'm young,
But I'm tired too.

I lay down
In my porcelain kettle
With butterfly legs,
And I can't even
Get dirty
Anymore.

No imaginary macho's
Doing pull-ups on the
Shower rod,
Or fluttering black lashes.

All the "Rock me, Mama's,"
Dead.

Just stare up
Showerhead piss streams
And watch the window light
Trying hard to be a rainbow.

Can't tell if I'm seeing them,
Or white light prisms seeing me.

Wondering if this
Is what baptism is like
Until goose bumps start crawling,
Crawling me out of the tub.